Run: 2026-02-16-01KHKAERSM9E77C312FSD0BE69

The van ticked in the twilight, smelling faintly of frosting and rubber chickens. Confetti stuck to the dashboard like colorful barnacles. Between them lay a tinsel-wrapped map of the community center, annotated with doodles of cupcakes and question marks. Molly tapped a broken kazoo against her knee; Bill wore a paper crown he’d found under the seat, as solemn as a monarch of mischief. Somewhere beyond the windshield, a chorus of tiny voices rehearsed a chant for cake, which felt like a war drum. Molly: Are we really about to outwit a battalion of sugar-charged seven-year-olds? Bill: It's not outwitting if they’re distracted by cake; it's simply good scheduling. Molly: Your plan hinges on frosting behaving predictably, which never happens, not even for adults. Bill: Hence the contingency confetti; nothing reorders priorities like a festive, legally harmless indoor snowfall. Molly: And the disguises? Bill: Time-honored: balloon artists with a troubled relationship to giraffes; it explains any oddly shaped evidence. Molly: I can twist a credible dachshund, but my giraffe looks like a philosophical question mark. Bill: Perfect; existential balloons will stall the parents while we conduct a solemn inventory of colorful boxes. Molly: Inventory, is it; we aren’t stealing, we’re rescuing neglected wrapping from its brief, crinkly existence. Bill: Paper deserves a second act; also, I have a hunch that dinosaur puzzle is actually avant-garde. Molly: Avant-garde until someone swallows a stegosaurus piece; please tell me you practiced the celebratory patter. Bill: Absolutely; I have six synonyms for ta-da and three emergency jokes about gluten-free glitter. Molly: Do any of them end without litigation? Bill: My lawyer said to smile broadly and pronounce the word donation like a distant, benevolent relative. Molly: Donations typically involve permission, not an exit strategy shaped like a bouncy castle. Bill: Semantics; besides, every castle needs a drawbridge, and I’ve memorized the zipper on that inflatable. Molly: If we rely on a zipper, we’re one jam away from a renaissance painting of regret. Bill: Fine, plan B is cake-based diplomacy; I approach the dessert table, you announce an impromptu magic show. Molly: Classic misdirection, unless a toddler demands we actually conjure something besides crumbs and disappointment. Bill: I can produce a rabbit emoji on my phone; children respect modern sorcery. Molly: They respect battery life; make sure the rabbit doesn’t buffer. Bill: Meanwhile, you serenade the gift table with birthday limericks; rhythmic language loosens ribbon knots. Molly: The ribbon unravels because scissors whisper courage; also, I refuse to rhyme anything with orange again. Bill: Fair; we’ll rhyme tangerine and unforeseen, and the parents will applaud our commitment to citrus. Molly: Speaking of unforeseen, what if the magician shows up and recognizes us from that unfortunate dove incident? Bill: Then we pivot to professional courtesy; we compliment his sleeves and offer to unionize the top hats. Molly: You are a poet of implausibility, and yet I’m warming to the chaos. Bill: That’s the spirit; we glide in, we perform, we depart like rumors carried by helium.